


Moonlight

by Sorkari



Series: Sunset [2]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Medical Malpractice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-10-29 12:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorkari/pseuds/Sorkari
Summary: Shane's first step to healing is forgiveness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place ~three years after Starlight, but it can 100% be read as a stand-alone fic.
> 
> Be warned: it gets incredibly sappy. And whumpy. Cruelly self-indulgent, if you will.
> 
> [Song inspiration](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iQBop_g73qw)

Orbs of warm yellow drifted delicately along the cobblestone path and into the nearby woods on the way back to the farm. There was a chill that had followed closely behind the moonlight jellies that night, signaling the seamless transition from a thick summer to a gentle fall. The few fireflies that lingered tremulously along a root that protruded from the ground scattered as the farmer stepped over it.

It wasn't until they were far from town that Shane finally weaved their fingers together. Perhaps for the first time in the past few grueling months of summer, the atmosphere didn't stick to their skin, starting thick and heavy where their fingers intertwined until it was too unbearable to hold hands anymore. The farmer had stopped talking some time ago, no longer fighting to speak over the chatter of wildlife in the woods, the silence between them soothing, delicate.

Eventually, the farmer prompted, "Shane?"

Something tentative lingered in his tone. Shane squeezed his hand, and oddly enough, the farmer was dilatory in squeezing back. "Yeah?"

They came to a gradual stop before the gates of the farm. A long, winding thread of Christmas lights still clung to the metal, weaved so intricately along the bars late last winter by Shane and the farmer. The farmer seemed infatuated with them from the moment they arrived home from Pierre's with the box. He never once complained about their presence in the months that Shane had neglected to remove them after the holidays passed. They glittered brightly, a sharp white that contrasted with the smooth yellow of the fireflies in the surrounding woods.

"It's been three years." The farmer's eyes were strikingly dark and bold, even under the light of the moon and the stars above. "Three years that I've woken up every day, wondering what I did to score someone so amazing." Anticipation coiled in Shane's stomach when the farmer withdrew his hand. "Three years that I've spent next to you every night, wondering how I went so long without you before. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about -" He fumbled with something in his jacket before he finished, "spending the rest of my life with you."

The farmer dropped to one knee. Shane's throat tightened, heart fluttering wildly in his chest, and he could see, cradled in an ethereal shine from the moon's reflection on the glass, was the mermaid's pendant.

"Shane, I -" He breath caught in the back of his throat, a delicate smile on his lips when he asked weakly, "Marry me?"

Shane swallowed over the knot in his throat. Somehow, he managed to say without a tremulous stutter, "Yeah."

* * *

A pale glow illuminated the sky above Shane, just bright enough for him to navigate through the farm and the sheds without too much difficulty. The soft beginnings of sunrise yawned over the horizon just as he had finished setting out the grains for the chickens. The cows across the graveled hallway were already grazing lazily by the fencing just as the chickens had started to pour out of their coup and wander into the tall grass.

Shane tied the bag of chicken feed and tossed it over his shoulder, considerably lighter now, leaving the chickens to scratch and wander as they pleased. They were large now, sleek white feathers fluffy and lined with a healthy glow. Shane remembered bringing them over; it had been so long ago that he delivered the chicks to their new home, into their freshly built coop, small but undeniably homely.

The front door creaked open just as Shane was ascending the steps of the porch. The farmer rubbed lazily at one eye, the other hand cupped around a mug of coffee.

"I got up extra early and fed the animals," Shane told him. "Thought you'd appreciate the help."

The farmer kissed him with a soft, blissful hum. He tasted of coffee, sharp and bitter and ridiculously pleasant.

* * *

Shane never bothered to learn how to cook. He attempted to surprise the farmer a few times with breakfast on holidays, or dinner when he was feeling particularly bold, but whether he was successful in his endeavor or not seemed to depend on a mere coin flip. That morning followed the routine of most mornings when he was the one to wake up first; he'd sift through the small box of recipes that the farmer had stored away in a miscellaneous drawer, debate between the same two for a ridiculous amount of time, and eventually give up and settle for something frozen.

It wasn't like the farmer minded. Somehow, he always accepted the pepper poppers Shane offered him, despite it being mushy and oftentimes cold in the middle. Somehow, he'd smile, press a gentle kiss to his lips, and talk about whatever weird dream he had that night. It was one of the many times that Shane would consider just how lucky he was - lucky that he found someone so stunning, and especially lucky that that stunning someone just so happened to love him back.

Or maybe it wasn't luck. Maybe he earned it, somehow.

It was nearing seven in the morning when the farmer finally headed out. Shane glanced over at the table where the farmer had left his plate behind, only to find that it had remained mostly untouched. A few half-eaten pepper poppers sat abandoned among the others. He supposed it was about time the farmer had grown tired of frozen garbage in the mornings.

Some time later, when Shane discovered that they had run out of rice, he set off to Pierre's. But just outside on the steps of the porch, the farmer was seated with his hoe propped up next to him, bent over the edge to face the ground.

Shane crouched next to him. He placed a hand on the farmer's shoulder. "What's up?"

"Nauseous," the farmer hesitantly answered. He straightened a bit, swallowed thickly, and added, "Must be some weird stomach bug or something. Probably the sashimi Linus sent me."

That was the first time Shane had ever recommended seeing Harvey. Perhaps he should have known that the farmer would be quick to reject the idea.

* * *

The farmer settled at his side with a blissful hum. He ran his fingertips along Shane's chest in slow, meticulous patterns. The beginnings of rainfall were starting to tap against the window, and gradually, the farmer's hand had come to a stop. Shane intertwined their fingers instead. His other hand, pillowing the farmer's head, squeezed gently at his upper arm.

"Hey. I need to ask you something."

The farmer shifted a bit. His breath ghosted over Shane's skin as he lazily answered, "Hmm?"

Shane held his breath, then quietly asked upon his quick exhale, "Would you want to adopt? One day?"

A year ago, when he first considered asking the farmer about adoption, he couldn't bring himself to even mention it aloud. But then there were cozy evenings like these, when the farmer turned in early and spent the rest of his night with him. There were moments like these - nestled comfortably under the covers, listening to the rain begin to pick up outside, with nothing on his mind besides the farmer's fingertips pressed against his skin - where it felt right to call the farm home. It felt right to call the farmer _family._

Family. A family of his own. A family with the farmer. There was nothing Shane wanted more.

For a few moments, the farmer didn't answer. The slightest beginnings of doubt immediately faded when the farmer abruptly shifted to face him. His eyes, a smoldering forest green in the dim lighting of the small lamp at their nightstand, shone with something breathtakingly delicate.

"I'd love to."

* * *

The gate creaked as it swung shut behind him. The fencing was starting to decay, Shane could tell, and pretty soon, they would need to be fixed. That was another thing he planned on doing early one morning, long before the farmer woke up, both for the sense of accomplishment and to allow the farmer another couple of hours to rest in bed.

He returned to the farmhouse once the sun had started to peek over the horizon. To his surprise, the farmer was already seated on the porch swing, a thin blanket wrapped over his shoulders, a mug cradled in his hands. He regarded Shane with a soft smile, his eyes still lidded with sleep, his hair messily combed up and out of his face. Shane couldn't help but smile in the wake of the pleasant, fluffy swell in his chest.

"You're up extra early," the farmer pointed out with a cheeky grin on his face.

Shane kissed him, slow and sweet, but oddly enough, he did not taste coffee.

* * *

One thing that Shane hadn't changed were his visits every Friday to the saloon. He didn't regularly drink, but over time, he found himself talking to Emily more often. She was happy to talk to him, frequently starting up conversations on her own, like how she would when he first moved in to Pelican Town. Next to the fireplace, his corner remained dark and desolate, and it had been that way for several months now. Perhaps it wasn't right to claim it as his own anymore.

Shane didn't remember the last time he spent his evening moping at the corner of the saloon with his third mug of beer clenched between two trembling hands. He didn't remember the last time he drank until he swayed or until he could barely find his way back to Marnie's ranch. It had taken time, but he found that he no longer visited the saloon for the alcohol. Maybe that was why Emily had taken a liking to talking to him again.

The farmer was already in bed when Shane returned from the saloon that night. Shane settled into bed next to him, and he rubbed at the farmer's shoulder with one hand, the other propping himself up against the mattress.

"You sure you don't want to go see Harvey?" Shane asked. "You've been feeling like shit for a while now."

The farmer, back towards him, remained unresponsive. A few moments passed before he quietly answered, "Yeah." He added under his breath, "Just a stomach bug. It's nothing I can't handle."

Shane withdrew his hand. He opened his mouth, a few wordless motions forming on his lips, then clicked it back shut. There were many complains on the tip of his tongue, so many things he could bring up to voice all of his concerns, but he could only manage a heavy sigh.

* * *

The farmer stopped making coffee in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Raindrops pattered on the tiles of the roof, insistent and never ending, slowly melting away into the back of Shane's mind the longer he laid there. It had been a long time since the farmer awoke, and an even longer time since he's left their bed. He knew he should get up, knew he should at least brush his teeth, but he was long past trying to convince himself to get up.

There would always be days like this, where he felt forever entrapped in his blankets, swallowed whole by the mattress, suffocated by the shadows of their bedroom. There would always be days where he would never be able to convince himself to even turn onto his back, even when his shoulder and hip started to ache. They were few and far in between, however, which he considered, once he was capable of coherent thought, a victory.

The door creaked open once more. Then followed slow, heavy footsteps, careful yet still so stupidly clumsy, until Shane's side of the bed dipped with the farmer's weight. He never said anything, but each time ended the same; after some time, with what felt like an extraordinary amount of effort, Shane managed to sit up in bed. At the foot of the bed, Alfred lounged on his side, tail twitching where it curled over his legs.

In one hand, the farmer held a glass of water, and in the other, two pills. "Here," he offered, voice softer than the raindrops outside, as smooth and even as Alfred's distant purr.

Shane found that it was an even harder task to take his medication. Even with the farmer at his side, his eyes bright, hands warm and comforting, it was almost too laborious. The farmer took the glass from him, his other hand resting on Shane's wrist, squeezing delicately when he asked, "Anything I can get you?"

With what felt like an extraordinary amount of effort, Shane rasped, "No."

He pulled his wrist from the farmer's grip. Curling back into the blanket was the easiest thing he had done that morning. For a few moments, Shane listened to the raindrops, hyper aware of the farmer's presence behind him, until the farmer quietly stated, "Well, I'm here if you need anything. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Shane snapped.

The farmer's breath hitched. Shane couldn't find the energy to apologize.

* * *

Late into the night, Shane awoke to a bright light shining insistently over his eyes. He shifted, grumbled some incoherent nonsense, and eventually cracked an eye open. Across the room, the door to their bathroom was ajar. Not long after waking up, the farmer emerged from the restroom, face pale and sweat laying in a smooth sheen across his forehead.

"Something the matter?" Shane asked, low and rough with sleep.

"Nothing, really," came the feeble response.

The farmer slid back into the bed, settling under the smooth sheets, and Shane could feel the strong heat that burned through his skin.

"Hey, hold on." He reached up to press the back of his hand to the farmer's forehead, where his bangs were plastered to his searing skin. "You're burning up."

Thankfully, the farmer voiced no protests when Shane left to retrieve Tylenol and a cold rag to place over his forehead.

* * *

Rarely, the farmer would make dinner, and each time he did, Shane considered it to be a blessing.

The front door rattled in its frame when a particularly strong gust of wind came rushing past. Some old movie played in the background, muffled to their ears over the wind and the crackling of the fireplace. Shane eventually sat at the dinner table, Alfred curling loosely at his feet, and watched the farmer set out their plates. It wasn't often that they ate together anymore; he briefly wondered when they had fallen out of that habit.

"The apples are just about ready to harvest, I think," the farmer had told him, voice heavy, growing rougher as he murmured, "and so are the pumpkins. Lots of things to do . . . before winter. . . ."

Shane cupped a hand over the farmer's where it lay clenched above a napkin. "I'll take care of the animals and figure something out about those heaters." In an afterthought, he added, "And maybe I'll have another go at fixing those fences."

The farmer snorted. The tired droop in his eyes were no longer painfully apparent, instead replaced by a soft glimmer that Shane didn't realize had been missing for so long. "Shane, you're _awful_."

"What do you mean? I'm a master carpenter. Robin's got nothing on me."

The laugh that elicited was light and bubbly, so carefree in a way that the farmer hadn't been since the beginning of summer that year. Shane knew it was unhealthy for the farmer to take on the amount of work that he does, spending every waking moment doing as much as he could. But that was just how he was, how he functioned - at the very least, Shane supposed, the months of winter and early spring were spent in leisure, and rightfully so.

The farmer stopped a few spoonfuls into his pumpkin stew. He instead pushed it aside, a small grimace marring his countenance, a mixture of pain and dissatisfaction alike. Shane hesitantly asked, "Is it your stomach?"

There was nothing more painfully guilty than the way he had avoided eye contact, instead focusing on his folded hands on the table. "I thought food would help, but. . . ."

The flare of irritation that the feeble admission elicited wasn't something Shane could prevent. He hissed out, "I don't know why you don't want to see Harvey when this is obviously a fucking problem."

"Because it's not getting in the way of anything!" The farmer let out a sigh far too heavy than it had the right to be. "Winter's right around the corner, and then I have the rest of the year to take it easy. And see what Harvey has to say about it, if it's even still a problem by then."

Shane stared down at his own bowl, suddenly extremely disinterested. After some time, the farmer said, "I'll be fine, Shane. It's all right."

* * *

It wasn't all right.

Shane remembered his visit to Harvey's clinic so vividly. Waking on a soft mattress, enveloped in a scratchy blanket, with Harvey at his side asking him tentative questions as the world came into focus. It had been so long ago that the farmer had taken him there, late into the night, both of them soaked to the bone, but the farmer never regretted it. He'd do it again, if he had to - and thankfully, he never did.

Yet they were back at Harvey's clinic again, and Shane wished he was the one on the hospital bed. The curtains were pulled shut as Harvey entered, the rings above scraping raucously along the metal lining, loud enough to make Shane flinch. It shielded them from the outside world, a mere privacy thing, but Shane couldn't help but feel trapped. The bright light above the bed hurt his eyes, and underneath the blaring shine was the farmer.

He was alarmingly pallid, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, illuminated in a way that made it look remarkably artificial. The infusion pump next to him ticked idly on, each drop deafening in such a quiet room, and it made Shane's head spin. Harvey said something next to him, but he couldn't hear a thing.

Eventually, he rasped out, "We thought it was just a stomach bug, you know? That shit goes around every year. Then this happened."

Earlier that morning, Shane found the farmer in their bathroom, slumped over the toilet bowl with an arm around his abdomen. He said something under his breath, rapid and incoherent, before heaving into the bowl once more. Even the slightest tug on his sleeve in an encouragement to get up elicited a pained sound, choked out from the back of his throat.

"It's not just a stupid ass stomach bug, is it?" Shane asked.

He avoided Harvey, focusing only on the infusion pump, trickling slowly away in a mind numbing tempo. Whatever expression Harvey had on his countenance, Shane didn't know; he listened as Harvey softly started, "Stress can do a lot of things to the body -"

"Stress? Are you - _stress?_" Shane finally looked over to him. The pity in Harvey's eyes only served to agitate him further. "I understand headaches and constipation. But he couldn't - he couldn't even _walk_. Don't tell me you're gonna chalk that up to stress."

Harvey tucked the clipboard he was holding under one arm, gesturing with both hands as he started again, "People's reactions to stress vary drastically -"

"Bullshit," Shane interrupted with a sharp snarl. "Stress doesn't do_ that_ to people." He glanced down to the IV that was attached to the back of the farmer's hand. "What are you even giving him in that thing? Salt water? Some sugar placebo garbage?" The farmer's brow was still furrowed, jaw clenched shut, unresponsive even to the light above him. "He's suffering, you asshole!"

"Shane, it's all right." Shane whipped over to him, dissatisfied with the calm, slow voice that explained to him, "His blood pressure was a little high when he came in, so he's on a medication to help lower it. There's also something small to help with the pain and the fever."

The way Harvey spoke to him, slow and calculated and so infuriatingly delicate, made him feel remarkably petulant. Over Harvey's shoulder, Shane could see Maru clutching on to the edge of the curtain, shoulders tense, eyes trained carefully on her shoes. He took a deep breath, then another, and finally grumbled, "Okay. All right. Fuck. Fine. How long is he in here for?"

"I'd give him another week at most," Harvey answered. He lifted his clipboard again, eyes trailing quickly along the sheet, then added, "I imagine all the farm work, along with preparing for winter, has been especially hard on him. You need to make sure he takes it easy from now on."

Shane glanced down at the farmer once more. There was sweat beading on his brow, and at some point, both hands had clutched onto the sheets with white-knuckled grips. No amount of coaxing from Harvey - even on his way out the door a couple of hours later - could calm the snakes that twisted and coiled in his gut.

* * *

Shane spent most of the day watering the farmer's crops. By the time the sun had started to set, he felt excruciatingly heavy and lethargic, and the palms of his hands burned at the slightest touch. He set the hoe and watering can down on the foot of the stairs where the farmer had left them. He straightened his back, groaning at the audible cracking along his spine, and regarded the field of pumpkins that covered the land.

The bright, golden hues of the sun had melted into a dark orange, casting long shadows across the farm. The chickens were slowly turning in for the evening, and off to the side of the farmhouse, he could see that the horse had already settled on his knees in his bed of hay. How the farmer managed to get all of this work done before the sunset was a mystery.

Shane plopped down on the couch with a pleased sigh. On the other side of the couch, Alfred had curled against the cushions, lifting his head to chirp at the sudden jolt. He was aching, and he would no doubt have blisters on his palms by the end of the week, but none of that truly mattered; he'll make sure that stubborn bastard takes it easy, even if he has to take up half of the work on his own.

_It'll get easier_, he reasoned as he drifted off to sleep. _After all, the farmer was a city kid, too._

It'd take time, he knew, but he'd make it. They both would. Together.

* * *

Somehow, Shane managed to finish watering the crops and tending to the animals on time to see the farmer just before sundown. The clinic had closed hours ago, but Harvey let him in regardless. He was allowed a couple of hours at the farmer's bedside. A couple of hours with the farmer's clammy hand in his own, with the insistent drip of the infusion pump ringing in his ears, with the delicate beep of the heart monitor fading in and out of his head. Eventually, Harvey managed to coax him away from the farmer's side.

"Take it easy for the night," Harvey told him at the door. "You can come visit first thing tomorrow morning."

* * *

Much later, long after Shane had settled into bed and started to drift away, he received a phone call.

It was Maru who told him that the farmer's heart was failing.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Sorkari_) ✨


End file.
